


Homestead, where the heart is

by burglebezzlement



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Secrets, Soup, Treat, spoilers up to ep 1x11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-16 19:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7281964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burglebezzlement/pseuds/burglebezzlement
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Waverly getting shot, Nicole brings Waverly soup and a listening ear. Set after Ep 1.11.</p><p>
  <em>“Got shot,” Waverly says. “Not a gut shot though. It’s okay.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She raises her sweater to show Nicole her bandages, and Nicole’s face crumples and she sits down carefully on the side of Waverly’s bed.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homestead, where the heart is

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saiditallbefore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saiditallbefore/gifts).



Normal people who get their house shot up when someone tries to assassinate their boss get to go somewhere else for the night.

Not the Earps, though. Wynonna and Dolls are convinced nowhere else would be safe, without the protection of the homestead’s bedrock, so Waverly’s lying down in her bed while she listens to Willa and Wynonna and Aunt Gus cleaning up their home.

Waverly had a kitchen, finally. After years of cooking on a glorified hot plate in the little room-partment she shared with Champ, Waverly finally had a proper kitchen with cabinets and a full-size refrigerator that almost worked right and a window over the sink, so she could look outside while she did the dishes. She bought most of the stuff in here with her own money from Shorty’s and now it’s going to go straight into the truck bed to go to the dump.

Waverly’s not sure who calls Nicole — maybe Dolls or maybe Wynonna, or maybe it’s more likely that Nicole heard it over the radio.

Nicole’s in the doorway and Waverly’s only kind of processing, because Dolls gave her something for the pain.

“Waverly? Are you okay? Dolls said you were — what happened?”

“Got shot,” Waverly says. “Not a gut shot though. It’s okay.”

She raises her sweater to show Nicole her bandages, and Nicole’s face crumples and she sits down carefully on the side of Waverly’s bed.

Nicole’s wearing her deputy’s uniform, hair back in that buttoned-down French braid that Waverly wishes she would let down more often. “You look good,” Waverly says. 

“You look good too,” Nicole says, but the worry in her eyes tells Waverly she’s lying.

Nicole holds her hand for a bit while Waverly drifts, and then leans over and kisses Waverly’s forehead and Waverly doesn’t have the energy to try to redirect her. “I’m going to go help downstairs, okay?” Nicole asks. “I told them I came out to help.”

Waverly’s stomach flips over. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know, but it’s a disaster scene down there,” Nicole says, and then winces. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to say that.”

“S’true,” Waverly says. She’s feeling fuzzy. Muffled. Probably thanks to Doctor Dolls and his magical bag of medicines.

Nicole squeezes her hand and heads downstairs and Waverly couldn’t figure out how to tell her that Wynonna still doesn’t know about them, but it’s not because Waverly hasn’t been trying. Hasn’t been dropping little crumbs and hints and hoping, _hoping_ , that Wynonna’s going to follow up on them. _Do chicks dig scars?_

Waverly gets it. Wynonna’s busy. Willa’s back.

* * *

Waverly’s half-asleep, dreaming of pink cars on snowy roads, when Nicole comes back into the room.

She’s carrying something that smells like food. “Waverly?”

Waverly opens her eyes and starts to sit up, but — that _hurts_. The wound in her side is pulling with a burning feeling, like she’s been branded. “Here,” she says, instead. “I’m awake.”

“I brought food.” Nicole sets a bag down on Waverly’s dresser and comes to the bed. “Here, let me.” She puts her hand behind Waverly’s back on the other side and helps her sit up, propped up against the pillows.

“Thanks,” Waverly says. Once she’s still again, the burn settles down to a dull ache.

Nicole smiles. “I get it.”

“Yeah.” Waverly thinks of Nicole in that hospital bed and reaches out to take her hand. “So is there food in that bag?”

“There is,” Nicole says. “Dolls sent me out for food so he could talk to your sister and Eve, but when I got back… I think they’re arguing about something.”

“Probably,” Waverly says. She still hasn’t figured out the right way to tell Nicole that Eve is also her sister, back from the dead. It’s not an easy thing to tell someone. “What about?”

“They stopped talking as soon as I got in the room,” Nicole says. “So. Soup?”

She gets the plastic soup container and a take out spoon from the bed and starts feeding Waverly. The soup’s from the Chinese place over on the highway, halfway to the city. It’s salty and savory and it tastes like the best thing Waverly’s had. 

“I think I can feed myself,” Waverly says, once she’s got a few spoonfuls in her, and Nicole looks doubtful but hands Waverly the spoon and the soup container anyway. 

Waverly’s got this. Mostly. She only spills a little broth on herself and she totally manages to catch the wontons against the side of the carton to cut them into smaller pieces. Nicole watches her for a bit, and then takes a carton out of the bag and starts eating something noodle-y with chopsticks. 

“So,” Nicole says, once Waverly’s down to the bottom of the soup container. “Are you going to tell me who tried to kill you guys?”

Waverly’s hands start shaking. Nicole sees and takes the soup container away from her. 

“It’s not like that,” Waverly says.

Nicole’s expression is gentle as she pushes Waverly’s hair back from her face. “I’d still like to know,” she says. “They tried to kill you.”

“They tried to kill Dolls,” Waverly says, defensively. “Not me. We’re pretty sure on that.”

“From where I’m sitting, you’re the one with a bullet hole in you.” Nicole says it lightly, but Waverly knows that she’s holding herself in check. 

Waverly’s been holding back on tears since this happened. She spent so many years as the cry-baby. The youngest Earp. Willa used to tease her — kidnap Mr. Pumpkin or steal her dessert or blackmail her, and then laugh at her when she cried.

“It’s okay,” Nicole says, her voice softer, and Waverly feels the tears come. At first she’s just crying, just a little eye-leakage she could blame on allergies or something, but then the sobs come, setting off a new burn of pain in her side. 

“Hey,” Nicole says. “Hey. It’s going to be okay.” Waverly feels the ancient mattress dip as Nicole climbs in beside her, pressing up to Waverly’s good side. She tucks Waverly’s head in under her chin. “It’s all going to be okay.”

Waverly knows this is what you say, whether or not it actually is going to be okay. Whether or not Nicole has all the information to make that call.

“It’s probably not.” Waverly hiccups and her wound burns.

“I’m here for you,” Nicole says. Her body is warm at Waverly’s other side. “Whenever you want to talk.”

Waverly wants to talk. Wants to tell Nicole everything that Dolls says she can’t know. Wants to talk to Wynonna, about Nicole. Wants to talk to Willa, about what a shitty sister she was — but you don’t do that to your big sister when she just came back from the dead. 

“I mean it,” Nicole says. “Whatever’s going on. I know it’s something weird, Waves. And as soon as you can tell me about it without having Dolls try us for treason… I’m here for you.”

How do you explain a family curse? How do you admit that the first person you told about your relationship — the fact that you’re not straight, even — wasn’t some drifter with a thing for your sister, but your great-great-grandfather’s best friend, who should be dead?

How do you explain a family like the Earps?

But then Waverly thinks about what Doc said. _She adores you back_. 

“It’s a really long story,” Waverly says.

Nicole kisses Waverly’s temple. “I’ve got nothing but time.”


End file.
